Seventeen
by CliffieMaster
Summary: Seventeen years old, and nothing has changed. ::JarethSarah:: Oneshot


Cliffie: Can anyone say "abstract"? It's kinda weird, and somewhat jumbled, and a bit too much like my other Laby fic, "Struggling to Breathe" but this is what wanted to be written, and who am I to say no?

Enjoy, and please review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Labyrinth or any of the characters. This is for entertainment purposes only.

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Seventeen years old, and she's still as much as a child as she's always been.

It's all beginning to swirl, twirling together in a wild dance of pastels and running paint that smear across the canvas and obscure whatever story it might have told.

Once upon a time still haunts her, whispering in the back of her mind, insisting that fairy tales are real.

She knows they are, but she can't accept it. Not really.

She can't accept that she'll see him again. She doesn't want to, does want to, and it all mixes and disappears and a thousand and one questions dance behind her eyelids as she lays on the bed and stares into darkness.

The peach will claim her. It's part of Faerie, part of the Labyrinth, and he'll come back for her.

She knows the tales. She's read them often enough. She devoured them as a child, still holds them up as truth because she knows reality isn't all that real in the end and _fairies do exist_. She knows the myths, the legends, the sayings that once you eat from Faerie, you'll never be free again.

But is the Labyrinth part of Faerie?

She doesn't know, and she's seventeen years old and wishing for something to happen because she can't stand waiting any longer. It builds in her chest, thick and hot and high and she can barely see anymore, because the world isn't what it used to be now that she's been through the Labyrinth and back. It's dull, and quiet, with none of the color and the sounds and smells and _magic_ of the Labyrinth.

That's what makes her think that Labyrinth has to follow the rules of Faerie, no matter how twisted they might be. It's magic.

She remembers the ballroom and the dance and the _hurt_ in his eyes when she turned away to escape _get away get away get away_ and she abandoned him there, alone on a floor full of wild, uncontrollable people that he rules and hates, probably, too.

She sees him in her dreams, haunting her with every breath she takes, and when she wakes she knows the owl had been outside her window just a moment ago.

They say something's wrong with her. Why doesn't she like any of the boys at school? It's unnatural, that's what it is.

But none of them can compare to him, and she hates herself for holding up such an ideal when she doesn't know _pretends not to know_ what love is. He isn't an ideal; he's a devil, the opposite of what she should yearn for, but she's never been able to really control her desires.

Sometimes she can still taste the peach on her lips, juice slowly dribbling down her throat and chin and making her shiver in ecstasy. She knows, without a doubt, that he tastes the same way: wild and free and ugly and beautiful and dangerous, oh so dangerous, and so sweet and cruel she wants to cry.

Seventeen years old, and she waits for him to come get her, not knowing whether she wants him to or not but knowing, for certain, that he will come eventually.

Dread and elation constantly mix in her chest, swirling in that endless dance where she wore a beautiful dress that felt like silk and sometimes she wonders if he picked it out especially for her.

She wonders if he loves her or is just obsessed. She wonders that about herself, too, but it hurts in a strange way to think about it, and it scares her, so she reverses it and contemplates him, _it's always him, in the end_.

She wonders if he did this to her, made her fall so heavily.

Seventeen years old, and she realizes that she's his through and through. He never needed the peach, really. She'd still be his.

She wonders if she's under a spell of Faerie. She doesn't think she is, because Hoggle would have told her. She still sees him, all of them, sees them in the mirror and holds conversations with them and loves them, loves them far more than any of her friends at school or out.

Sometimes she thinks she's going insane, slowly slipping further down into a hole that smells like the Oubliette and looks like a maze, twisting and turning until she doesn't know whether she's up or down or whether he'll catch her if she falls _she doesn't think he will_.

She thinks she is insane, but life has never made more sense.

Just wait. That's all there is to it. Just wait, and she still can't let go of fairy tales.

Seventeen years old, and she waits for the goblin king to take her away because she's as much his as the Labyrinth is, and she only escaped for a short period.

The anticipation is killing her, in ways she didn't know were possible, tearing her life into small shreds that float to the ground gently gently like the rustling of a silk gown.

But she's not afraid.

She should be. She should be hiding under her blanket, shivering with fear, begging anyone listening not to let him come and take her away.

But, really, she fears him not coming more than anything else, just because she's twisted like that, like he is.

Seventeen years old, and Sarah rises at midnight, goes to the window, and opens it.

The wind is rough and hard on her skin. She closes her eyes, letting it whip her hair into a frenzy, letting it take her breath away.

The hand that brushes her cheek doesn't startle her. She's been expecting it for two years.

"What a lovely girl you are, Sarah."

Seventeen years old, and the goblin king has come to reclaim the one who ate the peach, the one who was already entwined with Faerie because sometimes things just happen.

Seventeen years old, and Sarah breathes out softly, never opening her eyes. When she does, she fears he'll be gone, and she still longs for things that she shouldn't care about and pretends to hate.

It's not fair, to feel all this and hate herself and him so fiercely that it turns to obsession and love and did she ever hate him, really?

It's not fair, never ever ever fair, and Jareth laughs softly at her.

Seventeen years old, and nothing has changed.


End file.
